


The Righteous Man

by brorotica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Death, Hell, M/M, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brorotica/pseuds/brorotica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of the apocalypse, Castiel brings Victor back. As things progress, the chapters will form less of a fluid fic and more of a big 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Righteous Man

**Author's Note:**

> Some strong language, I think. Mentions of Hell.

Victor wakes up and his mouth tastes like sulfur, his lips taste like ash.

He opens his eyes to darkness, but it isn't the darkness he's used to. It feels like velvet, crushing in on him, black and warm and so filled with smell that it might as well be tangible. The smell of earth, of soil, rich and overpowering, fills his lungs, and he's sure he's going to suffocate when there is the sound of something above him. Footsteps. An absolute impossibility if he's where he believes he is, but footsteps nonetheless. Victor tries to keep calm, but the darkness is pressing in on his eyes, pressing in on everything, and he catches glimpses of things he never wants to see again.

Something hits the darkness in front of him and he raises a hand, presses it against something warm but solid, not flesh but wood. It's a coffin. He knows it immediately, his breath hitching in his throat as panic begins to set in.

FBI.

Remember it.

Remember the training, remember the training, remember Quantico and the roommate and the guns. Remember disassembling the pistol until hands bled and blisters formed, until calluses were burned into flesh and the guns- all of them- were just extensions. Just an improvement of the human body. A bullet was a piece of flesh, a gun a simple means to an end but something so much more.

Victor relaxes, and the coffin opens. The light is blinding and he snaps his eyes shut, but it doesn't do much good. Sunlight ripples in through his eyelids, sets everything back on fire. Burning. He remembers burning. He licks his lips and tastes something more than ash. Something so much worse. "I'm here to help," a voice says from above him, low and gruff and monotonous, and Victor opens his eyes, stares up at a dark-haired man in a disheveled coat and a blue tie.

Without speaking, Victor takes the hand proffered to him, lets the man pull him up out of the grave. He rests against the grass, feels the sun on his skin, attempts to get his bearings. He remembers the demons. He remembers the girl. He remembers the light. All he can do now is remember. No. He can believe, as well, and he believes right now. He believes it when the man- Castiel, not a man, an angel- explains he's alive again. Explains that he was in hell.

Explains that Victor is the most important person on the planet at that moment in time. But two men- two brothers- can never find out. They are the ones who began the end of the world. They are the ones who will stop it from ending. Victor, though, is more important, more crucial. Because while the boys are off on a mission from God, Victor is on a mission from mankind.

Victor remembers the men. He remembers their names, tastes them in his mouth as much as the sulfur. Dean tastes like gunfire. Sam tastes like blood. The two of them are the reason he died, but while revenge burns hot and bright inside him, it isn't directed towards the Winchester brothers. Castiel, still coated in a thin layer of dirt, sitting on the grass beside Victor, tells him that the Winchesters are good men but they are not good people. They are good hunters but they are set in stone. They are dangerous. They are distracted, and the apocalypse is happening, but there are towns being plagued by vampires, sororities being hunted by werewolves, apartments being stalked by ghosts.

Victor, apparently, is the antidote.

He lays on his back and breathes the air and stares at the sky, an endless, unfamiliar blue. He was in Hell. He remembers it, vaguely, but it’s hard and it’s fuzzy and it hurts, his chest twisting up as he attempts to probe. He doesn’t want to do this. He wants to help but his muscles are weird and he smells like death. Finally he asks why it needs to be him.

Castiel’s lips turn up in the smallest smile. He looks down at Victor and simply says, “Because you were the righteous man who didn’t break.”


End file.
